


On Ribbons and Wrappings

by orphan_account



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Multi, unrepentant smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of the best presents are the ones that come in pairs. </p><p>If they teach you something, all the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Ribbons and Wrappings

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the Alternate Universe of another fic I've done, "Strike Release". Edith is kept by the Sharpes rather than killed; obsessive relationships and a lot of smut abound. This is some of that smut, because I am weak.

Lucille has acted odd all morning.

It hasn’t even been the sort of odd that Edith can pretend is average for her. There are moods that take Lucille, of course, moments where the serene placidity of her features is upset, where a crevasse runs through the whole of her icy rigidity. There are moments where she breaks down and screams, where she thrashes, where she pulls hair and scratches skin, moments where she curls up into a little ball and wants nothing more than for Edith and Thomas to curl around her like protective hounds, as if the world cannot possibly harm her with the two of them standing guard.

But this morning hasn’t been like that. In fact, if anything, Lucille’s been in a better mood than normal, her normally fluid steps buoyant, bubbly. A small smile has been on her lips since the three of them woke up, as if it’s her own birthday and not Edith’s.

Despite the occasion, despite the fact that they could actually afford to pay for the ingredients to make a cake, it had been so many years since that had been a reality for either of the Sharpes that Edith had decided against trying Lucille’s cooking skills towards it. But they’d made a nice brunch, and Lucille had played them a little concert of her own choosing - waltzes, mostly, which Edith found were actually enjoyable when she didn’t feel the whole of the world was watching her every movement. After they’d danced until they were thoroughly winded, Lucille had joined them in their little pile on the cushions and Thomas had read them faery stories until they’d all fallen quite fast asleep.

It was really everything she could have wanted, she thought.

Evidently, she was not thinking enough about the big picture.

That evening - and it was evening, she found, by the time that she felt Lucille’s delicate grip on her shoulder, rocking her back and forth rather than jolting her to wakefulness. Edith stirred slowly, feeling the heavy breaths of post-deep sleep as she fluttered her lashes.

“Wake up, little butterfly.” Lucille had murmured. When Edith turned to look, she noticed that her lover was already dressed in her nightgown, her hair let down into one, long plait. Only, there was an addition - a large silk bow in the cheerful shade of yellow Edith favoured, a colour like daffodils, she thought. The sight of it made her laugh a little, fond.

“Are you to be my present?” She asked, mostly joking. But red lips curled back at her, and both the fine, dark arches of Lucille’s eyebrows rose a little.

“Partially.” She replied. “But there are bigger bows to be unraveled.”

Taking her hand, Edith rose, and slid her arm through Lucille’s, tipping her head on her sister-in-law’s shoulder, still drowsy. None of them had dressed properly the whole day - Lucille had barred the doors to the entrance and shut up all the windows, and they’d eaten and danced and slept in the light of dozens of flickering candles and whatever scant beams came in through the roof - and so there wasn’t much undressing to do, exactly. Her gold hair had been left to fall about in romantic waves, though she wore the slightly more put together addition of a house robe over her night gown. She was a little surprised, then, that Lucille was leading her to her own room, and not the bedroom Edith shared with Thomas. But, then, she supposed that maybe the idea of a present, the undoing of a bow that would allow her night gown to fall apart quite easily, perhaps stood for prospects a little more earthly than at first obvious.

Those thoughts were upon her when she let Lucille lead her into the room, one of her hands covering Edith’s eyes, a temporary blindfold. 

“A little more… A little more…” Lucille whispered to her, and then, lifting her fingers at last: “Now.”

In truth, she guesses she should have seen that coming. Of all the tropes to pull, Lucille nearly always chooses the most obvious, jarring ones, and this is no exception. 

Because in front of her, her husband is kneeling on Lucille’s bed, his arms bound to his body in a big bow of yellow silk. His eyes are bound too, and though his mouth is free, it’s pressed into a line as his pale face goes alight with a flush.

He’s naked but for those ribbons binding him, woven around his slender form, tight enough to nearly cut in against the soft carved marble-made-flesh. After a few moments, he even tilts his chin down, clearly embarrassed. 

“Am I… To unravel him?” Edith asks, and Lucille smiles beside her, leans forward. 

“He’s your present. Though I always advise opening the smaller gifts, first. It enhances everything… In my experience.”

Edith doesn’t wait on that, she knows by now what comments from Lucille are actually suggestions and which are pleasantly veiled commands. Her small fingertips tug free the yellow silk from her lover’s throat, and she watches as the folds of delicate lace and crepe fall away, bare skin low on her chest revealed so that the rosette circles at the tips of her breasts just barely peak out. In the candlelight, her pale eyes are near to glowing, and Edith makes a small noise of pleasure when Lucille kisses her full.

Her own mouth is smaller, more delicate, and she admits that she likes feeling so minute in comparison to her lover - to her lovers, both of them, so similar in figure. Edith doesn’t protest when Lucille picks her up, curls her fingers in the ample waves of blonde hair and pours her over the bed, beside Thomas, biting and sucking at her lips until they’re red as rouge. 

When they break, breathing heavily, Edith makes a half dazed reach for the bow at Thomas’s arms, and it’s only when Lucille’s hand wraps around her own that she truly understands the gift is not just the two of them, but something more.

“You’ve not yet experienced what a treasure Thomas can be, Edith.” Lucille tells her, sliding behind her brother, lips rubbing against his ear. They make such a pretty picture together that the writer isn’t entirely convinced she’s not still dreaming, but with the current of desire that runs through her at the way Lucille’s hands slide over Thomas’s chest, she’s not really sure she cares. “He’s so beautifully docile - so patient. I want you to understand that.”

She wants to pout and say she does, but really, though Thomas is gentle with her, he doesn’t bow the way he does with Lucille. Then again, Edith bows to Lucille’s whims somewhat, too; it’s a spell she has over them, Medea to their helpless human weakness.

“Come here.” The witchling breathes, and Edith does, letting herself be handled and adjusted, the skirts of her night gown lifted, her hips placed just against Thomas’s. He doesn’t move, not even when she rolls herself against him, experimental with his resilience.

Lucille’s hands keep her upright while the brunette tips her brother backwards, laying him not only bound but prone, and slowly, she rolls herself over his mouth. When she strokes his throat, Edith see’s the pink tip of Thomas’s tongue lap up into his sister, and she watches Edith’s own cheeks colour as she leans her upper body forwards.

“I want him-” Edith starts, but Lucille’s lips are on her tongue again, catching it, sucking it into her own mouth. 

“Be patient.” Lucille tells her, and Edith is obliged to content herself with rubbing Thomas’s cock between her lower lips. Their sexes swell with heat at the same time, and it isn’t long before Edith’s slickness is providing a delicious, maddening sensation that makes her squirm.

Going against Lucille’s orders isn’t an option; and she’s always right, anyway, she wouldn’t lie about something like this. So all that energy, all that need works its way into Edith’s flowery hands, her fingers lacing behind Lucille’s swan neck, gripping her as they kiss. They slide down her body, measure the softness fullness of her breasts - larger than Edith’s, rounder, and Edith wonders constantly if she ever looked so abundant before she was a mother - the longline curves of her body, the swell of her hip and thigh. 

Her fingers even work their way to Thomas’s jaw as Edith works her mouth around one of Lucille’s nipples and Lucille strokes her hair, winds reams of buttery silk round and round the makeshift spools of her fingers. She presses her hand on his neck, just enough pressure to suggest a rough kiss, really, but for the first time, Thomas jolts beneath her, lets his head fall back to the bed and keens in earnest need.

Lucille is the one who lowers herself a little more, who smiles when he groans against her. When Edith scrapes her nails against his throat, she can see the tension in his body as he tries to hold himself back.

“Our fears shape us in more than just panic, Edith.” Lucille tells her, and when Edith’s small hand closes around Thomas’s throat with a determined squeeze, she watches the other woman moan low at the vibration travelling up from her brother’s mouth.

The two of them ravage him that way, Lucille’s hand moving over her own clit, massaging it until between that and Edith’s mouth and Thomas’s tongue, she comes, her thighs shaking, her body aflush. She glows like a warrior queen, fresh from victorious battle, and Edith finds herself short of breath when Lucille moves forward and wraps her up in her arms. Over her shoulder, she can see Thomas panting, his eyes still covered but his mouth so pink and swollen and wet with come. 

“What do you think, Edith?” Lucille asks her little butterfly as she scrapes her teeth against the delicate stem of her neck, none too gentle, always hungry for her. “Does he deserve you? Has he been good enough?”

And that, it finally occurs to her, is the entire point. The point that she holds the power to deny Thomas pleasure, to deny either of them pleasure… To just take what she wants for her own. Like Lucille. 

“I want him.” Edith answers, relishing the way that Lucille’s fingernails scrape down her back, between the blades of her shoulders, leaving welts that will look like wings come morning. With another hungry suck against her neck, Lucille reaches down between them, holds Thomas’s cock still, her hand moving away only very slowly so that both Edith and Thomas have to feel every. Last. Inch.

There’s something to the waiting, she thinks, or maybe just something to the power, to being given permission to withhold someone else’s pleasure. It makes her rocking against the member inside of her, every squeeze of her body, something delicious, a pleasure that she, herself, produces. When Lucille slides to her side, her hand moving down to stroke Edith the way she’d stroked herself, the writer leans forward again, places her hand back on Thomas’s throat and squeezes. 

The pressure pulses tighter with every rock of her hips forward, and she finds that it unravels Thomas as quickly as Lucille’s hand and his cock is helping to unravel her. The pressure is an unbearable thing, a thing she controls, and she knows that all she has to do is let herself go to fall right over the edge of it.

When she does, she cries out, she tips her head and cries, wordless into Lucille’s hair. Beneath her, she can feel Thomas do the same, his own scream settling down into sobs of breath, little catches. 

It isn’t until she finds herself back in reality that she has the mind to reach further and unravel his blindfold, and she’s somewhat startled to see tears in his eyes.

“Are you alright?” She asks, concerned for a moment, and he only nods, wordless. She turns to Lucille, who has an uneven, amused grin on her face.

“I think you hurt his windpipe.” She tells Edith, and the blonde feels herself colour when Thomas lets out a somewhat embarrassed nod. It’s Lucille who separates them and reaches behind Thomas, props him up to unravel the bindings on his arms while Edith kisses his neck and cheeks apologetically.

“I’m sorry.” She says, and he leans against her, arms curling there once free. 

“It’s alright.” Thomas tells her, his normally smooth voice somewhat rough. He’s quiet for a few moments, tentative, and she recognizes his fear of judgement, a thing waiting to be shame as he speaks again.“Was it… Did you like it?”

Edith kisses Thomas’s lips first, and then Lucille’s as she settles down beside her brother, drawing up the covers around all three of them as they settle in to bed.

“The best present I’ve ever gotten.”


End file.
